


Gellon ned i galar i chent gîn ned i gladhog

by JHarkness



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Sindarin elvish spoken, Smut, and the barduil is past, i promise the original characters are very minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Aragorn and Legolas marry in Gondor, Legolas wishes to visit his homeland with his husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gellon ned i galar i chent gîn ned i gladhog

**Author's Note:**

> This was simply necessary in my mind. I've always wanted Legolas and Aragorn married, and I wanted to write something involving the father/son dynamic of Thranduil and Legolas. The series name means "Heart of Flame," and the title is "I love to see your eyes shine when you laugh."

Aragorn had been told countless times of the mysteries of the Mountains of Mirkwood to the north, of the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , Wood of Greenleaves. He had been told of the fair elves that dwelled deep within, of their fierce and strong king, and of their unwavering suspicion of outsiders. They preferred the power of isolation.

Appreciating this, Aragorn had little reason to venture there. He had taken the creature Gollum to Thranduil to earn respect from the Woodland Elves, nothing more. It was not in his nature to ask for favors. Rather, he thought it agreeable to collect allies. As King of Gondor he had numerous.

He also had many enemies, and did not desire one of them to be King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. Yet Aragorn could not break his promise to a certain elf who had asked him to go with him to his homeland.

Legolas’ face was soft in sleep. His hair rested like golden wheat on a field of snow, falling onto the pillow beneath his head. Aragorn brushed his fingers through that hair, whispering gentle urges to remain in Gondor; for Aragorn was tired and unwilling to admit that he was afraid to meet his new husband’s father.

Lost in the thought of facing Thraduil’s wrath—Aragorn shuddered at the words he had imagined, words about worthlessness and words of rage—he did not notice Legolas waking. The elf’s piercing blue eyes bore into Aragorn’s own gray ones, sparkling with alertness. He blinked once and smiled gently before tucking his head beneath Aragorn’s chin. Legolas brushed his hand down Aragorn’s arm, gentle as a summer breeze. Aragorn closed his eyes, and then turned to press his lips to Legolas’ forehead. His skin still tasted faintly of sweat.

Their room was bathed in the cold light offered by spring mornings, usually following a night’s rain. As it was a few clouds remained in the sky; they were heather-grey and small, but remained nonetheless. Aragorn wished their day could be this: simply holding Legolas, naked and pressed against him, until the night came again and the clouds passed.

“Good morning,” Aragorn whispered, and Legolas smiled. He laid his head back on the pillow, nose barely touching his husband’s, breath mingling. Speaking quietly, their words punctuated the bedroom with sounds somewhere between the language of men and elves. Abstract meaning rather than purpose was attributed to these syllables, settling instead for touch to translate what they could not find words for.

But then Legolas lifted himself on his elbow and cleared his throat, and Aragorn sighed.

“Lá, Aragorn,” Legolas began. _Please_. Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing his words had done nothing to dissuade Legolas’ adventurous ideas. He rolled over onto his back. Though he had not truly thought that realistic anyway—it was nearly impossible to change his mind, let alone his heart—Aragorn thought his effort should be appreciated. He said as much.

Laughing, Legolas twined his fingers in Aragorn’s. He squeezed his hand gently before lifting his head and continuing in Elvish: “It will not be long. If we take the East Road, the he journey will take us to Rivendell for rest—”

“And over the Misty Mountains,” Aragorn interrupted, staring at the ceiling.

“—and later to the city of Dale, where King Bard II will welcome us gladly.” Legolas’ voice faltered slightly here, for what reason Aragorn did not know, and he resolved to ask again when he was not attempting to convince his husband a journey was not necessary at all. It was not yet the third year of the Fourth Age, and the Reunited Kingdom was prosperous. Middle Earth did not need their King to die on the road.

Legolas sat up, back against the wooden headboard of their bed. “The people of Dale deserve the presence of their King, Aragorn,” he pressed, fingers turning Aragorn’s chin to turn his face, eyes seeking contact. He let all covers fall from his lithe body. Shining, pale skin met the morning light, unblemished as newly fallen snow. Aragorn was struck breathless by this beauty, not for the first time, and wondered if this was to be a new tactic to convince him.

It would be successful, that much was true.

Legolas’ hands followed the lines on his lover’s face, letting his fingers dance across Aragorn’s lips before falling to his neck. From there he continued down until he met the ranger’s palm, and he slowly spun the gold ring resting on Aragorn’s finger. “Hervennya,” he began, “Tolo ar nin.”

Aragorn climbed over Legolas’ body, ignoring the half-hearted protests of his husband, and settled his head on the elf’s chest. He could hear Legolas’ heart beating quietly, quickening only as his hands sought the insides of his thighs. From his place on the bed, Aragorn could see their clothes from the night before still scattered haphazardly around the ornate room.

Inhaling slowly, Aragorn closed his eyes. He released the breath with an excuse on his lips, softened at the start; “Gi melin…” _I love you._

“Do not speak of love to me when you refuse to visit my homeland.” Legolas turned from his husband and cursed, mouth pressed in a tight line. He began to push Aragorn from his body, one leg already off the bed. His foot touched the floor before Aragorn hung his head and grabbed Legolas’ wrist.

“Daro, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly. His chest was tight, stomach churning from Legolas’ words. He began to apologize, but Legolas pressed a palm to his chest to stop him.

“Forgive me, husband. I understand that your qualm is in leaving your throne and traveling in this time. The Easterlings still seek power, and the kingdom is new. I should not have asked you.” Legolas closed his eyes and looked away, a soft pink blush reaching his cheekbones and ears. His tone was almost ashamed. Aragorn felt the fire of anger in his belly as he listened, disgusted that he had made Legolas feel this way concerning his desires. How dare he cause his husband such shame at something he should have readily done for him? Aragorn would unquestioningly go to war for his husband, would fight ten thousand orcs again and walk the halls of the dead. Something fierce and daring reared in him like a wild horse; he would not forget his life as a ranger, or his charge as one of the Fellowship. He had made his name on the road. He could carry it to halls of the Elvenking.

Aragorn gathered the elf’s blond hair in his fingers and brushed through it tenderly, letting his nails skim Legolas’ scalp. Legolas leaned forward into the touch. His forehead rested against Aragorn’s, and Aragorn hummed contentedly

Aragorn’s lips found Legolas’ neck; his fingertips traced paths into the fair skin they encountered on his chest.

“Aragorn.” Legolas’ voice held a different tone now. His lips parted as Aragorn’s hands moved lower, digging into his ribs. The sun bled into the room now, illuminating Legolas’ form as Aragorn pressed him back down. What blankets remained on the bed were forgotten at the edge of the bed, leaving both Legolas and Aragorn exposed to the chill. It affected them very little, however; Aragorn’s blood burned in his veins as soft light covered his lover, replaced soon by his own shadow. Legolas was lean muscle and velvet skin, and there was precious little that stirred Aragorn as wholly as the sight of him, naked and wanting, beneath his body.

Aragorn bent to kiss Legolas, teeth pulling at his bottom lip while his hands pushed his legs apart. He settled between Legolas’ thighs. Legolas moaned and wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s neck, drawing him close until their hips ground together, forcing a cry from his throat.

Mouthing at Legolas’ earlobe, Aragorn attempted to calculate the time it would take to prepare for their journey. His hands stilled at his husband’s knees. Legolas grunted, indignant, but the sound morphed into a whimper as Aragorn licked the curve of his ear before pressing soft kisses to the point. Breath hot, Aragorn murmured, “We shall leave within three hours’ time” into his skin.

Legolas laughed, actually laughed, as if he wasn’t pinned beneath his husband in their marriage bed. The sound was clear and innocent, and his eyes shone brightly. It was infectious, and Aragorn grinned boldly, his chest rising and falling quickly in soundless laughter. Legolas took his face in his hands and kissed him soundly, words of gratitude and love falling from his lips.

“Why delay?” Legolas asked, and Aragorn rolled his eyes. He splayed his palm against Legolas’ chest, holding him on the bed. Biting his lip, he kept his hand on the elf’s skin and moved it in a direct path downward, delighting in the way Legolas’ breath caught when his hand met its mark.

“I have plans for this first light,” came the reply. Aragorn’s mouth took the trail his hand had made moments earlier.

Legolas’ mouth opened as his fingers grasped desperately at Aragorn’s hair. Aragorn lifted his legs onto his shoulders, tongue tracing the line between Legolas’ thigh and hip, and then the length of his cock. Legolas watched him through half-lidded eyes, the pink on his cheekbones now the red of a sunset.

“Of course, if you feel that we should leave before the sun is high—”

“You are cruel, my king.” Legolas let his head fall back and groaned when Aragorn took him completely into his mouth. Aragorn laughed, and Legolas arched his back, toes curling at the sensation. He panted and watched the heated breaths cloud the air, fighting the overwhelming pleasure building in his abdomen. His hands moved from Aragorn’s hair, pushing against his own ribs as if to stall the inevitable. Aragorn’s hands covered his.

The slick, obscene sounds filling their bedchamber and the taste of his husband in his mouth had Aragorn aching; he rutted against the bed, trying to relieve some pressure. Legolas would not—could not—release his hands, and while Aragorn felt a twinge of pride at this, he needed something to soothe the fire in his groin.

Aragorn let Legolas’ cock slide from his lips enough to look up, watching Legolas as he neared his release. Mirkwood’s prince carried himself in a stately fashion, regal even in battle, but Aragorn had discovered a passionate and uninhibited part of him the night of their wedding; seeing Legolas lose himself in pleasure, Aragorn thought, was a privilege.

His privilege.

A breath, a gasp, and Legolas came, legs shaking and hips thrusting upward. Aragorn licked and sucked at him until he was soft and sensitive and begging. He climbed back up Legolas’ body and placed gentle, reverent kisses on his shoulder.

When Legolas reached for him, Aragorn shook his head. “It is pleasure enough to have you, husband.” Bringing Legolas’ hand to his lips, he kissed his knuckles, and then his open palm. Legolas nodded. His pupils were still wide, making the blue of his eyes even more prominent. Aragorn had seen neither sea nor sky the same shade, and doubted he ever would.

The thick, heady atmosphere of sex faded, replaced by a comfortable quiet. It was not long before they both stood and began to dress, Legolas in a loose gray shirt with a thicker, dark green tunic over it. Long gray trousers and brown boots that hid a small dagger followed; he packed away his cape and wrist guards, as well as more formal wear when they arrived in Dale and Thranduil’s kingdom. Aragorn donned his old ranger’s attire and followed Legolas in packing robes and tunics for more formal occasions.

A messenger was sent to the kitchens with orders to pack supplies for a week’s journey. Servants readied their horses; three, one for the King, once for his husband, and one for their supplies. They would acquire further provisions in Rivendell.

Next, Aragorn sought his advisors and royal aids to lay plans for his absence. They gathered in the throne room, though Aragorn and Legolas did not take their thrones. Aragorn preferred to sit equally with his court when he could; the idea that he should be held above so many men bothered him, though Legolas protested he had earned and deserved his station.

It did not keep him from calling them to a table strewn with half-written laws and poured-over letters.

“We will travel along the East Road, over the Misty Mountains, and then take the Old Forest Road until we reach Celduin. Following the river will take us to Dale, where we shall seek the King’s audience. We—” Aragorn glanced at his husband, who was unsuccessfully concealing a smile. A day’s ride would take them to Elrond’s kingdom, and three more to the river. By the end of the week they would be in the presence of the Elvenking. “We do not know yet how long our stay will be in the Wood of Greenleaves, but our absence should not be more than three weeks. Should we not return by then, dispatch messengers to Dale and Rivendell.”

“Faramir, of course, shall rule in my absence.” He nodded to his Steward, glad to have made this decision before the man left the city. He and Éowyn had come to personally invite Aragorn and Legolas to their wedding, as well as to discuss Faramir’s transition to Emyn Arnen. They had planned to begin their return to Gondor tomorrow morning, but now postponed their trip until the King’s return. Faramir stood and bowed to Aragorn, and the other members of the court followed suit. A few remained to wish him a safe journey when a hesitant voice interrupted them.

“King Elessar?” A young messenger padded uncertainly into the room, eyes wide. Aragorn beckoned him forward warmly and took the letter the boy held. “Thank you.” Nodding, the boy scurried from the room, and was followed soon after by the court.

Legolas glanced over as Aragorn opened the letter. It was written in Tegnwar script, and Legolas thought he recognized the hand. Aragorn, though, hid it from his gaze too soon for him to place it. He narrowed his eyes, lips pursed in a half-smile. Aragorn noticed and chuckled, patting Legolas’ hand before standing. He kissed the elf adoringly on the cheek before rounding the table and taking his leave, waving the letter. “All in good time,” he called.

“Elentári give me strength,” Legolas replied, not without fondness.

Following his husband from the room, Legolas was soon by Aragorn’s side once more. “If it is a letter from my father I beg you show me.”

Aragorn glanced at him from the corner of his eye but said nothing about the letter. Instead, he tucked it away under his vest and stared forward.

“I have been to your homeland before.”

Legolas tilted his head toward Aragorn, ears pricked in interest. He blinked inquisitively.

“It was half a year before we saw one another again at the forming of the Fellowship. In the time you and I were parted, I captured the creature Gollum and brought him to your father.” Aragorn frowned, brow knitting as he recalled the meeting. “I believe it possible I offended him, though I did not intend to do so.”

Legolas stopped Aragorn with a hand on his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Û.” _No_. “My father is very proud, and you are a good man, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. It is unlikely you truly offered him any slight.”

Aragorn began walking again, and Legolas matched his steps, silent as he waited for Aragorn to continue.

“I thanked him for sending his son to me, and then…” Pausing, Aragorn scratched at his neck, almost flustered.

“Aragorn?”

“I asked to court you. I told him that I could not forget your face in the starlight, and that I had spoken your name aloud every day so as to never forget it if we never saw each other again for a century. He seemed displeased and ordered me away. I never entered the halls again.”

Legolas’ face was expressionless when Aragorn finished his narrative. He was stiff, and quiet, the darkness in his eyes the only indication he had listened.

Finally, he spoke, voice so low that a louder hall would have rendered him inaudible. “You did not offend him. There is… There is history you should know,” he said, stopping to meet Aragorn’s steady, warm gaze. “It will be best shared in Dale. For now, husband, know that my father will welcome you gladly.”

Aragorn bowed his head, grateful. The tightness in his chest lifted somewhat as he followed Legolas to the stables. He tried to recall Thranduil’s expression, his words, and found only faded glimpses in his memory. It seemed a lifetime ago.

A horse reared next to him and Aragorn realized Legolas was already saddled, looking amusedly at his husband. “Gwaem!” It was the giddiness of a young man, not someone weathered by war and tragedy. Aragorn grinned back at him.

“Your eyes are stars.”

Legolas grunted but lifted his chin proudly all the same. His hair, braided now, shone brightly even in the darkness of the stables.

Aragorn pulled his leather gloves on and mounted his horse.

As they left the gates, Legolas directed his horse closer to Aragorn’s and laid his hand over his husband’s.

“You will be welcome there. My father is neither the King you believe he is, nor the one he used to be,” he assured, passing his thumb over his palm. “He had not met you as King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom, husband of his only son.”

Aragorn, inhaling sharply, gripped his husband’s hand tightly in his own. He glanced back at his kingdom, his home—

And then he looked to the road ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin Elvish is spoken here. If anyone reads this and notices errors, PLEASE let me know.


End file.
